It sounds like the title of an Art film about a pair of Parisian courtesans doesn’t it. It’s actually the title of my most recent shopping trip though, so less exciting, sorry. I thought I’d share two of my favourite London shops with you as I managed to hit them both in one day, and am still floating on a euphoric cloud of post-purchase delight.

Diptyque

Diptyque are a luxury perfume and scented-candle brand, originating  in Paris at 34 boulevard Saint-Germain. Three friends (an interior designer, a painter, and a theater director/ set designer) created a kind of stylish bazaar full of surprising items, gathered by the trio on their travels. This combination of Parisian romance, exotic travel, and a commitment to quality, have made Diptyque  highly desirable.

I often wear their perfumes, but the scented candles are where my loyalty is unwavering. Pomander in winter, and Freesia in spring. A creature of habit am I, like a trustworthy hedgehog snuffling along the same paths year in, year out. HOWEVER, I thought I’d go crazy, and try a new one! I picked out Mousses (Moss), partly because it evokes “all the fresh scents of the forest floor after the rain”, which sounds like heaven to me, and partly because it sounds likes mouses (childish snigger). I headed to 37 Brook Street, Mayfair, as there’s a lovely little branch of Diptyque near Bond Street tube station. Helpful staff, happy to let you wander around sniffing bottles and jars, or to offer expert advice if you require it. Seductive fragrances float through the air, enchanting and enticing you. Every purchase will also have complimentary perfume samples added to it as well, which are perfect for popping into an evening bag.

Mousses smells exactly how it is described. Earthy and green, it smells of damp bark, leaf mulch, trickling streams and ferns crushed underfoot as you leap and blunder dart through the forest. The perfume distribution of Diptyque candles is incredible, and you can scent a whole room just by placing one in it unlit; the £40 size also has a 50hr burn-time. A lot of my friends are horrified that I’ll spend £40 on a candle, but scent affects us so deeply that I’m surprised to be considered unusual in my adulation of it.

V V Rouleaux

VV Rouleaux is a ten minute walk (in high heels) North of Diptyque, to 102 Marylebone Lane. It sells beautiful ribbons in every colour and fabric, feathers, tassels, and satin flowers galore. A glamorous haberdashers, for the glamorous arts and crafters! It’s technically a passementerie, devoted to the art of making elaborate trimmings or edgings (in French, passements). Being surrounded by ribbons and feathers reminds me of an elegant age when all clothing you didn’t make yourself was haute couture; a time of cocktails, jazz and dressing up.

102 Marylebone Lane

Tying gifts with real ribbon (rather than the nasty, plasticy stuff that’s always sold at Christmas) makes them so much more special, and shows that you’ve put the thought and care into a purchase that its recipient deserves (even if you haven’t). I’ve also made my own gift-cards (Birthdays, Christmas, Thank-you etc) since I was four, and my mother refused to pay the Air Mail for cards to England if they weren’t a bit more special, so I love finding a new colour or fabric I can experiment with (leather ribbon anyone? V V Rouleaux will provide). I am V V excited about playing with my new haul, and I’ll show you what I come up with once I’ve had to time to destroy our flat in the name of gift-cards.

A few examples below – I’ll write a post about them soon; then you’ll get to see my glue-gun.

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The time has come.

My tadpoles have started to turn into tiny frogs, staring mournfully out through the convex glass of their prison home and dreaming of freedom. first they grew useless looking, skeletal appendages beneath their tails, which slowly grew stronger and began to be utilised for extra propulsion, and then front legs exploded out of their heads (I’m not joking; it’s really weird). Despite giving them a gently-sloping stone platform they can sit on above water level, and procuring a Tupperware box full of aphids to feed them from the garden of one of my students (that family will never view me as a sensible, normal adult again), to my absolute horror I somehow lost two more frogs last week. I was perplexed by this, and mortified, and even a little upset (I know they’re just frogs, but they’re my frogs!)

I had secretly been harbouring plans to keep a few, but realised the impracticality of this. Firstly, having to regularly hunt down live prey is not really my thing (daphnia seem to be of no interest to them, unfortunately). Before finding the aphids, I spent an uneasy afternoon desperately searching the flat for ants, tiny flies or other insect life small enough to feed to them, contemplating such things as moths and bumble bees before shaking my head and muttering “too big, too big” under my breath. Nothing could be found (probably a good thing?!) and I realised that I was going a bit mad. Plus there was the death thing. I really didn’t want to  be inadvertently responsible for any more tiny corpses disappearing into the willing maws of their siblings.

Literally climbing the (glass) walls. Normal frogs aren’t supposed to be able to do this, so they must be desperate.

Tom headed to Dorset for a man-weekend with one of his man-friends (it’s not quite Vegas is it, but as long as they’re happy) so I took the opportunity to visit my parents, and release my froglets somewhere suitably pastoral. I got the train South, and bought myself a small bottle of champagne for the journey, to toast their freedom. I actually bumped into an old school friend at Charing Cross, so we travelled down together and kept the froglets company (I’m not sure if he was more perturbed by the fact that I was transporting baby frogs in Tupperware or that I was planning on drinking champagne on a train, on my own, in the afternoon… but anyway, I thought it was a good send-off).

There’s a beautiful and ancient pond near where my parents live, that I actually released the last few I managed to keep alive into (tadpoles must view my flat as being like a set from Battle Royale). It’s very overgrown, and I had to tiptoe between briars and across spongy moss to reach the edge, but it’s a small, lily-pad filled oasis. It’s also surrounded by ancient blackthorn, hazel and oak trees, and has a lovely view across rolling Sussex countryside (not that the froglets will care, I know, they’ll be preoccupied with trying not to be eaten, but it makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside).

Nice bit uh prime reel estate. Jus perfic fur frogs.

I used to go out hacking in my youth with one of our neighbours and her daughter, and we would often ride past this particular pond. She told me that a body was found in it years ago, preserved in the same way as the Lindow Man and Woman, but I never knew if she was telling me the truth. I’m less suspicious of the story that prehistoric weapons and tools were found in it though, which suggests that it may have been around since the Bronze Age. The log where Kevin Costner addressed his merry men is also nearby, but again I don’t think the frogs will care.

Yes, I climbed over a five bar gate in a mini skirt and high heels. What else was I supposed to do?!

A last farewell.

As soon as I dipped the box into the water the remaining tadpoles disappeared into the shadowy depths, and the froglets breast-stroked their way to the edge to hide in the grass.

Here’s me looking sad to say goodbye.

I’ve been trying to think of something else I can keep in my fish-bowl that I’ll be able to keep alive, other than pond-snails (which aren’t the most exciting…) any ideas?

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Being in London during summer doesn’t feel right. I escaped to work in the country each of my first three London summers at university, so perhaps this has set a precedent I will never quite throw off. Whether exercising horses and brush-cutting rampant weeds, or house-sitting for a family friend who took their yacht and family (minus pets) off to the Isles of Scilly for two months,  I always found an excuse. Now that I live and work full-time in London, however, I am tied to it. The oppressive heat and stinking tube carriages, and unnecessary building-work extending houses upwards, outwards and downwards, that clatters and roars through open windows, is a part of daily life. I do love London, but sometimes it feels like living inside a huge factory. Powered by rumbling machinery and scuttling workers with dead eyes and empty souls.

Just as life in the factory was getting all too much, Tom came up with a wonderful suggestion: Cornwall. If ever there was an antidote to the daily grind and toil, it is to be found here. There is something wild and ancient about this part of the British Isles. The scream of seagulls, smell of brine, and the patchwork of fields in gold, jade and bronze transport me back to a simpler time. The few family holidays we took were always spent visiting my grandparents near Falmouth, as my mother didn’t want them to miss out on my childhood. I would read stories of magical forests , streams and wells, and animals that talked and went on adventures, and once a year I would be taken to visit the land such stories came from. For me the magic was real, and it came undeniably from Cornwall.

My grandparents have recently moved away but the area near Falmouth will always feel like home. Luckily for me Tom loves it as much as I do, so we scheduled ourselves a week off, found an apartment overlooking the sea, and made the five hour journey down by train. As we arrived late we headed straight to Rick Stein’s restaurant, for the most wonderful  seafood. The view isn’t particularly inspiring (the back of the Maritime Museum), but the atmosphere is relaxed and the food… indescribably wonderful.

The next morning we woke up and discovered that perfect summer’s day you never usually get on holiday, and a view from our balcony we’ll be able to stare at for hours even if rain manages to drown the sun.

The view from our balcony

We pottered down the road to a sheltered courtyard just off the high street, and had breakfast at Café Cinnamon. Serving excellent vegetarian food, this small, friendly café is the perfect place to while away a couple of hours, and the owners are happy to offer advice on the local area.

I managed to damage the lining of my stomach a few days ago (aspirin and ibuprofen are apparently the worst way to deal with back pain, as they react with the acid in your stomach to torture you) and on asking for a glass of milk (my doctor advised this, I’m not just reverting to childhood) I was offered the above, magical concoction. Milk with ice and mint syrup – it was like drinking mint imperials, and it was amazing.

After a leisurely breakfast, we got the ferry to Flushing. Ferries really are the best way to travel in Cornwall. Reasonably priced, convenient, and bloody exciting! Falmouth to Flushing is ten minutes by car, or a five minute/ £2.50 per adult ferry trip, so there’s no contest really.

 Here’s me waiting for the ferry to leave, riveted by excitement, my gaze fixed upon the open water.

 Here’s Tom enjoying the ferry too, in a rugged, manly way. His excitement is well hidden, but just as fervent.

Once in Flushing, we headed East around the coastline. You can walk to Mylor Harbour in 5-10 minutes via a series of twisting, overgrown lanes, but we decided to take the more scenic and adventurous route.

A coastal path weaves its way through fields, so we followed this for ten minutes or so before scrambling down through brush and sea-hardened shrubs to the rocks. Here did the real fun begin. Provided you catch an ebb-tide, a stretch of rock will lead you all the way round the coast to Mylor Harbour. Mostly dark shale, with seams of glittering white granite running through it, the landscape has clearly been twisted in some seismic shift, and the layers revealed jut towards the sky instead of lying flat. This has the added bonus of giving you greater purchase, but do still wear flexible shoes with a rubber sole for such scrambling. My Fred Perry pumps may not seem the most practical, but they allowed me to clamber safely across the rocks with far greater ease than Tom’s trainers (as well as matching my outfit).

There was a reason for making our journey a lot more difficult and time consuming. Rock pools. Peering into the depths of a huge pool, cut off from the sea and harbouring any number of monsters, is the best way to spend a summer’s afternoon. Drifting a stick through tendrils of bright green weed to flush out whatever may be hiding or camouflaged beneath it; patiently trapping tiny fish and shrimps with your hands until with a swoop you lift them from the water, and are able to examine them for a few elated seconds before returning them to their pool. The best thing of all, however, is ever so slowly lifting rocks from their resting places, to see what is hiding beneath them. Literally hours of fun to be had with this. We found a good assortment of crabs, and one huge fish that flopped out of the pool in panic, before escaping into the sea; much to my disappointment.

When we finally reached Mylor Harbour we bought well-deserved pints of Rattler (Cornish cider, pronounced ‘rat-luh’) and ice-creams, and sat on the quay enjoying the glorious sunshine. We were also treated to an unexpected air-show from a Royal Navy Rescue Helicopter, which looped around the harbour several times before hovering over the beach next to us and divesting itself of a paramedic on the end of a rope. An agog group of locals and tourists were by this point on their feet, pasties and pints of cider in their hands, and we watched in polite silence as the jump-suited paramedic jogged up the beach and into the woods. Imaginations ran riot, especially when the helicopter flew off around the bay, then returned to actually land; a second paramedic climbing out and jogging off in the same direction as the first. They eventually carried a patient on-board and took off, and the small crowd that had gathered slowly dispersed.

Can you spot the paramedic? He’s mid-air, if you need a clue!

The view across Mylor Harbour

More tales of seaside action and derring do to follow soon. Does anyone else enjoy hunting in rock pools as much as me?!

Yesterday, we returned to Mylor. Just above the harbour is St Mylor’s Parish Church, a very beautiful and very old building, that I’ve visited every time I’ve been to Cornwall for the last twenty six years. Parts of it date back to the 11^th century, and the graveyard full of ancient yew trees, trailing ivy and sloping, lichen-covered tombstones in narrow, crooked lines has always felt like a comfortingly peaceful place to me. Is that strange? To enjoy spending time in a graveyard? Perhaps so, but it has always felt like a place of rest rather than sorrow to me. There are also two other very important pieces of information I have so far kept from you. The first, is that I was actually baptised in this church. My grandmother is adamant I was baptised at night… but my parents are pretty sure this is not true.  How they can fail to agree on the details of such a momentous occasion, when the bible seems to manage just fine, I don’t know, but anyway.

The second, super exciting fact, is that Tom and I are getting married in this church next May. Think of this as a sneak preview!

Aside from booking the reception venue, designing the invitations and putting aside a ‘wedding fund’, we haven’t really done anything at all to prepare. It feels like ages away, but I’m sure the time will fly by and I’ll end up turning into a demented panic-harpy, trying to arrange everything in the last week. Any tips are very welcome. Oh, and I’ve also created a WordPress site for our wedding guests, with travel information, places to stay, advice on where to eat out, and things to see and do in the area. There’s also a page for gifts. That’s my favourite part. Has anyone else done this, or have I gone overboard (as overboard as a bride without a dress can go)?

After pottering around the church, we walked along the creek to Mylor village. It’s a lovely walk, and only takes about twenty minutes. One of many exciting events is the giant rhubarb. My father told me it would eat me if I got close enough, and I was wary of large-leafed plants for years afterwards. Seeing a trailer for the old Lost in Space film when I was about six didn’t help, as it featured a shot of giant carnivorous plants (“oh my god, Dad was right!”)

The Wild-Man of the Rhubarb

I used to spend hours imagining the sort of people that lived in the houses along Mylor Creek when I was little.They usually resembled the witches and magical creatures I read about in books, but these days I think they’re mostly Londoners escaping to the country. These steps in particular always fascinated me, especially when they were overgrown and jewelled with emerald moss in the spring. I’d loiter at the bottom, hoping someone would appear and ask me in for tea (probably lucky they didn’t, retrospectively).

We finally reached the Pandora Inn, just as the sun was beginning to chase away the storm clouds. A large thatched inn, the Pandora has burned down… a number of times now, but on this occasion it was thankfully still standing. Low wooden beams line the ceilings inside, barrels double-up as spare seating, and open fires burn in most of the rooms. Outside, a floating platform provides further seating, jutting out into the creek. Swans drift up and down, hoping for hand-outs, and children fish for crabs over the side. Locals often sail over, and moor their boats to the side of the pontoon.

The Pandora

A Sea-Swan

The view from the end of the pontoon. Not many pub-views can rival this one, though please let me know if you have any in mind!

Locals sailing over for an evening drink

My friend Kay, artist and librarian (sounds like excellent cover for ‘Secret Agent’ doesn’t it), who has been showing us all the best bits of Falmouth we didn’t know existed.

It was mostly families having dinner, and couples enjoying the sunset… and then this lot turned up to provide the entertainment. Look closely… It took him about ten minutes to, er, sort himself out, to the hilarity/ horror of the other patrons.

Kay and I seem to be tilting sideways by this point, probably due to Tom sneakily switching our half-pints of Rattler to full pints without us noticing.

We were the last group left out in the dark, but eventually the night chill got too much for us and we headed inside. Growing up on a tiny Pacific island has given me a lifelong tie to the sea, like an invisible cord that will never break, so I’m never happier than when I’m near it.  Being in Cornwall, where the sea permeates every aspect of daily life, makes me feel like I’ve come home.

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I’ve seen some incredible pieces of theatre over the years, but this experience topped them all.

Punchdrunk have pioneered a immersive, site-specific style of theatre production since 2000, in which audiences roam through a set and experience the action as and when they happen upon it. They specialise in classic texts, Faust and The Masque of the Red Death being previous examples, and their current production is  inspired by Georg Buchner’s unfinished play Woyzeck (I hadn’t heard of it, so you can have a smiley face sticker if you had). Titled The Drowned Man: A Hollywood Fable, it’s set across four floors of an abandoned sorting office next to Paddington station, and snatches of two parallel narratives are played out simultaneously. The audience are all masked, and encouraged to wander freely and explore.

It’s amazing. Utterly. Amazing.

I admit that the dislocated glimpses of narrative are difficult to follow, but if you do what I did and don’t even bother trying, this becomes unimportant. Action is a pleasant surprise, rather than something you chase after (and you will literally have to chase after it, if you want to follow it). Some sequences sort of made sense, others were utterly mad. We watched an actress dress a mannequin in the dark, then wheel it through the studio and… rub herself against it. She then used a watch to kidnap an audience member. Another actor was chased by a small group of the audience (us included), as he shrieked with cuckolded grief and threw himself through a barely-lit desert, tore off all his clothes, then was baptised in a bath whilst weeping. I quite enjoyed the absurdity of it all, as it added an extra level of surrealism.

What made the production so particularly wonderful for me though was the set. We were quite content wandering through the building, and exploring the labyrinth of detailed spaces that have been created. Being interrupted by the actors added a frisson of excitement, and we would follow them until they led us somewhere new that we wanted to explore, but it was our own journey that mattered. A few of those we discovered that stuck in my mind were a forest of pine trees surrounded by decrepit caravans; a room layered with persian rugs and ornately carved wooden furniture; another full of dusty instruments, hand tools and ornaments woven from palm fronds; a western bar with small stage and performing drag-queen; a desert lit only by a huge neon sign, half-sunk in the deep sand; a hollywood-style dressing room, complete with feather boas and lipstick stained tissues; a workshop devoted to succulents; and a gentleman’s study with the expected leather chair, cryptic notepad and hat stand.

It was in this latter room that my friend James and I were interrupted in our snooping (and hat trying-on) by an actor in a white tuxedo jacket. We were sufficiently intrigued by the scene we witnessed to follow him up and down flights of stairs, through dark spaces and hidden doors. He was walking so quickly we had to jog to keep up, and I remarked at one point to James (who I stuck to like glue after losing everyone else we had come with) ”he’s probably heading to the bar!” A minute later and we burst into that very sanctum. An actual bar is hidden at the centre of the warehouse (well, it’s in there anyway… I couldn’t actually locate it save by accident) that the audience are invited to visit, buy a drink in and remove their masks temporarily. Here we discovered two more of our party propping up the bar, and soon after the other missing pair stumbled in as well. Which was exciting in itself! Having lost each other in the darkness it felt like a reunion, but one in some strange dreamland given the different sights we had seen and experienced. “Have you seen the horse?!” Aidan asked me at one point. I had not, and did not, much to my disappointment. Having regrouped and downed a few gins, we remasked and headed back into the darkness.

The white Bauta masks all audience members are required to wear added yet another dimension to the production. Skeletally pronounced cheekbones, dark, empty eye-sockets and a pointed, beak-like jaw with no mouth became familiar, but were unequivocally creepie. We became both anonymous and a part of the performance; feeling able to walk up to actors and observe them closely, as well as to study each other’s responses. As fascinating as the action, was the license to observe the behaviour of the audience. Usually if you catch someone staring at you they immediately look away, embarrassed and fearful of confrontation. This does not happen at a Punchdrunk performance. New groups formed like packs of wild animals, brought together in the hunt with nothing in common except a shared interest in proceedings. If you get too close to the actors, they will also take this as a sign that you are willing to interact, and you’d better be ready! Speech is forbidden when masked, but I was both danced with and kidnapped by different actors, so if you prefer to observe only then don’t get too close.

We were eventually ushered into a room filled with white faces, in front of a stage where the grand finale played out. As the audience began to applaud, the actor in the white tuxedo reached for my hand, and without thinking I entwined my fingers with his. I panicked, a little, (obviously) but nevertheless trusted him completely. A few other people were similarly led away by the cast, and I could also sense Tom hot on our heels! I was led back into the now-deserted bar, where the actor gently removed my mask for me, and smiled. I felt bizarrely elated, laughing and smiling with him. He thanked me profusely for coming (my manners kicked in but any wit or intellect I possess abandoned me), then left me.

We regrouped with most of our party outside (some were lost in the darkness, grateful texts the only evidence of their survival) and unanimously agreed that it had been an incredible experience. There’s so much more I could tell you, but you should really just see it for yourselves. Wear as little clothing as possible as it’s very, very hot, avoid glasses as the masks are difficult to wear over them apparently, and wear thinly-soled shoes – the feel of the changing floor under my ballet-pumps was thrilling, as sand gave way, bark chippings crunched, and puddles splashed.

The Drowned Man is currently on until December, but they may extend the run further given its popularity. Just go! You won’t regret it.

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I’ll be working in Tuscany for the next three weeks. It’ll be tough, but someone has to do it.

I should probably explain what I do to put food on the table, and lots of pretty shoes under it (these are all my shoes, just so we’re clear – I haven’t been keeping a fleet of well-shod children from you). Tom and I run an academic private tuition agency, and teach a fair bit ourselves. We started off just teaching, then realised that we actually knew what it would take to run a pretty good agency.  We know what a good tutor looks like, and where to find them, and we provide training, resources and advice bourn of our own experience.

In case anyone doesn’t know what private tuition involves (I didn’t, before someone offered me money to do it) I travel to students’ houses, and give them extra academic help, usually with English comprehension and composition. Most lessons are an hour at a time, once a week, mostly helping them to prepare for 11+ exams. We offer tutors for all subjects at all levels, but the biggest demand is for 8-13yr olds taking entrance exams to get into private secondary schools (English, Maths, Verbal and Non-Verbal Reasoning primarily, though also Latin, French and Science for 13+). I’m pretty amazing at A Level tuition, if I do say say so myself  (all my students go from C/Ds to As or A*s, and a fair few have actually got 100% on both exams and coursework), but specialise in the 11+ as I also get on really well with 9-10yr olds. We seem to be on the same brain-wave. Worryingly.

I’ll be teaching for a family at their private Tuscan villa until the end of August. Two Russian girls, aged seven and fourteen, who will be starting at an English school in two years so need a bit of extra help. I’ve also been asked to spend half an hour each day with their two year old brother. I was rather nonplussed by this, as I didn’t actually know two year olds could talk. Apparently they can though – I rather suspect I’d have more luck teaching a dog to talk than a two year old child, but never mind. Any advice would be welcome! We actually provide a lot of holiday tutors over summer, and also arrange for the occasional full-time teacher to move to Moscow. There’s a high demand in Russia for experienced English tutors, especially those from a public school background; Old Etonians with an Oxbridge degree are like gold dust (if any Oxbridge-Etonians are reading this and fancy being sold to the Russians, please do get in touch).

I don’t usually do holiday placements myself, as I have a regular stable of London students and it’s nice to have the odd holiday of my own when they’re away, but with a wedding to pay for and a novel to finish, this one seemed too good to pass up. I’ll be teaching four hours per day, split between the morning and afternoon. Beyond marking homework and preparing lessons, I’ll be keeping myself busy the rest of the time getting on with that novel I’ve been writing. Or haven’t been writing, more to the point. I’ve hardly touched it for the last four months, so I’m looking forward to having no distractions, or excuses. Hopefully on the beach or by the pool!

Where do you do your best writing?

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I felt like scarpering back to London on more than one occasion in my first 24 hours of being in Tuscany, but things have definitely improved!

I was filled with trepidation before we even left London, as a thousand panicked thoughts had been swimming around my mind for months. When I finally arrived the family were mysteriously absent, having decided to stay another night on their yacht, and left the help to settle me in. As soon as I was told this on arriving at the villa I asked my taxi driver to wait, dumped my bags, and headed straight back to the nearby town where Tom was staying for a few days. Discovering that I would unexpectedly have to share a room with the nanny… well, let’s just say that absolute panic would be an understatement (I’m an only child! I haven’t shared a room with anyone, ever, except my fiancé!), so poor Tom had to spend the evening placating me.

We had a lovely meal, at a restaurant located in the medieval part of the town. It was set in a tiny walled courtyard, lined with terracotta pots full of rosemary and lavender. After a couple of glasses of red wine I started to calm down, and noticed the way the evening light turned all the stonework to amber, honey, copper and gold, and the gentle breeze that whispered away the heat. I got a taxi back to the villa as late as I was allowed to, promising to see Tom as soon as the first day’s lessons had concluded.

The trouble with placements like this is that you don’t know the rules. Every family have their own code they follow, their own habits and unspoken agreements. Every nationality differs, every religion; and we tutors are generally expected to work it out for ourselves. The next morning the chef made me breakfast (I’m just going to throw that in there and leave it, like I think it’s perfectly normal having a chef preparing all my meals for me). Nobody seemed to know when the family were due to return (though nobody really speaks English here, so this conversation was problematic in itself.) I then received an email explaining that they would return in about four hours so, having already prepared my lessons for that day in advance, I grabbed my book and selected a sun lounger by the pool in clear sight in case I was wanted. Lunch came and went, and a few more hours passed.

I was enjoying the warmth and the sunshine, and the murmur and trickle of water from the pool, but I was on edge all day waiting to do my job (I like my job, I understand it, and that gives me strength and confidence). 5pm came and went but then, just as I was about to get ready to go and meet Tom, I was summoned! It was lovely of them, really, but it was not at all what I needed: I got a phone call from the family inviting me to spend the evening with them on their yacht, so we could meet and get to know each other a bit better before lessons started. It was a kind and thoughtful idea, but the last thing I wanted at that moment. Apart from being instructed that I would need a swimming costume, all I was told was that they would collect the two year old and myself from their private beach shortly. I’m not good at not knowing what’s going on. It panics me.

The nanny showed me the way and brought the two year old (let’s call him Fred), and I followed as nonchalantly as I could. We wandered along the shoreline past sunbathing adults and children splashing and laughing in the shallows. I still had no idea what was going on, but then a rather large yacht ploughed towards us, and stopped about a hundred metres off shore. It nosed to the left a bit, then to the right, then seemed to stop as if confused. A small speedboat detached itself, and came closer. At this point it all got a bit mad. The nanny took all her clothes off (little ‘Fred’ was already naked but she had a bikini on, don’t worry), ditched her phone, and WADED INTO THE OCEAN carrying a child now bawling in panic.

“Er.. are we… we go in the sea? Now?” I asked. “Yes, come”. Was the only reply. The speedboat was still a good twenty metres from shore, and I had a BAG with a phone and STUFF in it. I contemplated for a second whether I should leave the bag behind as we were clearly swimming to the bloody boat, then reasoned that the nanny was a little old for such crazy shenanigans and Fred too young, so my possessions should be safe held about my head. Right. Luckily I’d put a bikini on under my clothes, as I had to strip, wade into the sea up to my chest, then clamber aboard the boat. Fred was placed into the arms of his older brother (we’ll call him Rupert) but continued to scream (because he was being kidnapped by strangely-familiar pirates, obviously), and the captain remarked wryly to me “well, that was exciting”. I think I replied with something witty like “ha, yeah”. Cool.

View from the top deck. Trying not to give anything private away whilst still showing you a shot of amazingness.

Seconds later we stepped on-board the yacht. It was huge, and beautiful, and the crew did absolutely everything possible to ensure everyone had anything they wanted at every moment. It would have been a delightful evening if I hadn’t been desperate to get back in time to see Tom (taxis don’t work after 10pm here it seem) and miserable at the prospect of not being able to. As it turned out though luxury only travels at ten knots per hour, and we didn’t get back until 9.30pm, so I had to give up on my Tom-visiting-hours. Luckily I’d been provided with a 1000mg paracetamol on the yacht to stave off a headache, so before my lip even quivered when I was finally alone, I passed out.

The next day I finally began teaching and, back in my comfort zone, my mood lifted immeasurably. It’s also quite impossible to be anything less than happy when the sun never stops shining, you spend your days in beautiful surroundings, all your meals are delicious and freshly prepared for you, and the people you are with are thoughtful, sweet, and welcoming! Here’s a photo I took of the pool, just to give you a taster. More details to follow very soon, I promise.

Has anyone else ever been on a working holiday? How did you find it?

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I thought I’d update you on how my lessons have been going, and explain how tutoring differs from normal teaching.

I genuinely enjoy tutoring and find it hugely rewarding, but there’s a lot more to it than just teaching. It requires a LOT of different skills.Your teaching has to be adaptable, for a start. No lesson plan is infallible, and effective lessons frequently have to be developed on the spot, depending on the unexpected requests of both parents and students. Sometimes an extra child will appear, a friend or neighbour who happens to be visiting, and it becomes a group lesson – different lesson format, teaching style and content are required. They may not be the same level, or even the same age.

That has happened here; the fourteen year old (we’ll call her Lisa) has two lessons each day, and a neighbour’s son appears every afternoon to join in with the second of these. They enjoy working together, but have completely different skills. The boy (‘Matt’) barely seems to understand a word I say, but (after Lisa’s translation of my instructions) his writing surprised me by proving to be imaginative and literary. Lisa’s comprehension and vocabulary are actually pretty good, but her writing is logical and practical, and lacks Matt’s creative flair. I stick to comprehension in the mornings therefore, so that Lisa and I can discuss poems and newspaper articles, and creative writing tasks in the afternoon so that she and Matt can share vocabulary and work on written composition together.

Sometimes your student will be bored by a topic, or have already completed a practise exam paper at school for example, so again you have to adapt. Sometimes a task proves too difficult, or too easy – it has to be changed on the spot. You also have to manage the expectations of the family, and get on with them – you need to be likeable as well as well-presented and respectable (well, I try). You have to monitor progress, to ensure success is guaranteed but the student still enjoys the lessons, and learns useful skills as well as how to pass an exam. I also have to sell the agency, promoting the different services we offer, which does not dovetail as easily with being a tutor as you may think. It’s a bit like being two different people.

I have to be nice and silly with younger students (animal noises and impressions are standard fair), adopt an academic vernacular for my older students to mirror whilst still being ‘cool’ enough (ha) for them to want to listen to me, and then resume a professional, business-like manner for their parents. I’m finding this even more difficult in Tuscany, as every member of the family additionally has a different level of English. When I talk to them together I have to take this into account, and when I teach the children one after another I have to remember to alter my vocabulary, phrasing and speed accordingly. Luckily my hopelessness with two year old Fred was subtly noted, so when I offered to tutor seventeen year old Rupert instead… the family agreed! I lack the words to express quite how happy this made me. Let’s just say that actual skipping occurred afterwards.

I also like surprising my students into enjoying themselves at the same time as learning. “Today’s lesson will be in the garden” is one of my favourite lines; I love watching confusion turn to incredulity, before delight beams out of their faces. Some of my students’ greatest progress has been outdoors. That makes me sound like Miss Jean Brodie, I know, but it works. Matt and Lisa couldn’t believe their luck when I marched them out to the pool for their second lesson together, so we could write a story about being attacked by an insect by a swimming pool. For the majority of my students though, learning to enjoy a subject they are underachieving in, and even to enjoy learning itself, is not enough. They have exams to pass, and specific skills to master.

Short stories, for example, require a very specific format. Maintain a simple plot by limiting time passing and travel/ movement, and instead focus on description by ensuring you describe every object, person and place. If you want to set a story on a railway platform, then you cannot leave the platform. “But…!” (they all cry out the first time, confused and horrified) No buts. Setting such limitations forces students to think, and they learn to write well. Mine are not the only methods that work, but I know how to get the best out of students if they follow my rules, and my success rate speaks for itself. Saying that, I can’t teach all students. I am not suited to those who lack intelligence, or who do not strive to prove themselves. Not because they cannot be taught, but because I simply do not understand them. Tom, however, is very good at coaxing those who lack drive or academic aptitude into achieving wonderful things… a skill which I am incredibly jealous of!

Lessons with Lisa are going well. Her English needs a lot of work, but she’s smart and wants to improve. Her eight year old sister (‘Emily’) hardly speaks any English at all and is resistant to learning it, so our lessons have been a challenge. She’s slowly coming round though, as she’s realised that she actually has to speak English to communicate with me. Her favourite phrases are ‘come and play’, ‘come and swim’ and ‘look at me!’ I have not taught her these – I’ve been trying to teach her prepositions – but she’s learnt them somehow and uses them a LOT. Rupert’s lessons are taking a fair amount of preparation, as he will be taking A Level Economics from September, so has asked to focus on this. We’re only discussing and analysing newspaper articles, but I’ve discovered that I have an utter dearth of knowledge in this particular field. It’s fascinating though, once you get past the associated boredom.

I never really grasped before that the government and the Bank of England actually control and help the economy. Mark Carney’s decision to restrict interest rates until unemployment rates fall, for example… well, yeah – that makes sense! I’d always assumed that banks were simply run like businesses, always aiming to get as much money out of people as possible. Likewise the government – the more tax people pay the more money the government has to spend on what it thinks it should spend money on, right? Well, it seems there’s a bit more to it than that. All of you who actually understand Economics are rolling your eyes at me right now, I know, but I really never thought about it before! I totally get GDP now as well. Check me. Another obvious one? Well Rupert didn’t know anything about it, and he’s about to take an A Level in this crazy subject!

I’ll always be drawn to the Arts and Humanities, because the right-hand side of my mind works better than the left; a well-oiled machine rather than a rusty (but not broken!) mangle. I can’t help but be intrigued by the Sciences though, in a voyeuristic fashion. As a teacher, you’re always learning new things.

Does anybody else teach in a school, or tutor privately? What are your favourite methods for enthusing your students?

My afternoon lesson. Who says you can’t teach dogs to talk?

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The last week has been both wonderful and surprising in equal measure.

After a week of shying away from my novel, instead reading in every spare second I had or diligently preparing new lessons, I finally returned to it. The break was incredibly useful. Instead of the laborious effort I had found the first 15,000 or so words to be, my characters came to life on their own, and I actually enjoyed taking the time to craft their story. The first seven chapters felt like slowly pulling barbed wire out of tar. I knew what I needed to do to ‘open’ the story, and I found it a little tiresome. Largely, I’m sure, as I wasn’t sure how I actually wanted it to end.

After emailing the first 23,000 words to Tom for feedback though, he insisted that I decide, so I did. Just like that. I’d been avoiding it, not wanting to get stuck with a plot or concept I later turned against, but I finally just got on with it and planned out the entire plot in detail. The children reacted differently to each other when I explained why I was always typing. Seventeen year old Rupert seemed impressed. Too right. Fourteen year old Lisa, however, sniggered! ”You are writing about your adventures?!” Brat. She’s great though – stoic and smart (and into horses. Definite bonus as far as I’m concerned).  I really like all of them, and am actually a little jealous of the tutor who will be taking over from me in September, and moving to Moscow to teach them full time. Not jealous enough to contemplate going myself; but I like them.

On Monday, we went to Sardinia. I was told where we were going, that it would be for a few days, and that we would be going on their yacht, but when the driver pulled into Grosseto airport I was… surprised! “Er, we fly?” “Yes, of course”. Of course. Duh. Of course we’re going to get on a private jet and fly to your yacht, then cruise along to Corsica for lunch, then on to Bonifacio for dinner. Of course!

The private plane

Anchoring at Bonifacio

The private plane was like being in a flying living room. Instead of the usual plastic the interior was covered in fabric, like ivory hessian, the carpets and leather seats were a pale caramel, and the walls and other surfaces were glossy varnished wood. The tables were spread with white tablecloths, and bottles of Evian and bowls of fresh fruit were laid out next to every chair. My coffee came with a large plate of Italian biscuits, and a second plate of Russian sweets. Nobody put seatbelts on when we took off and landed, and there was just a curtain – left open – leading to the cockpit. The children were completely au fait with the whole thing. ‘Like yawn – private jet again? Oh well, guess that’s okay’. It reminded me of flying with my father when I was little, when I’d be allowed to sit in the jump-seat behind him as he powered the plane into the sky.

I remember being fascinated by the view through the cockpit window, as Dad named the different islands we flew over in the day, and named the stars for me at night. I think most little girls hero-worship their fathers, but to be honest I still do. I think both of my parents are incredibly people, and I often feel guilty that they got stuck with me for a daughter!

On Monday morning we had a lesson in the air, snaffling sweets and biscuits together on the family’s jet, then played chess as we flew over mountains and Italian farmland. In the afternoon, lessons took place on the top deck of their yacht (well, most of the lessons. Rupert spent the afternoon asleep on the sofa, so had to miss his. “Rupert?” “Unh?” “Are you asleep?” “Unh.” Boys eh.) Not quite as exciting as sailing on a pirate galleon with Cap’n Jack Sparrow, but we can’t have everything we want.

The view from the upper deck

Winning at chess. Yes, of course I photographed it!

On Tuesday evening we anchored at Porto Cervo (Sardinia), and the family and crew were surprised to see pop-up designer stores had been set up all along the quay since they were last there. We peered at them, curious, as a crowd of people gathered to watch us (well, the crew) negotiate the yacht into a ‘parking space’ between the others. “Oh look, it’s a Harrods!” Someone noticed. The trees and bushes sparkled with fairy lights, sports cars were on display between the shops, and glass boxes glowed from within, trying to entice the super-rich through their doors. The family disappeared for a couple of hours, and returned laden with Prada and Miu Miu shopping bags (I wanted to yell out a suitable pirate curse/ greeting as they trotted on board with their bags, then find myself some rigging to climb, but I didn’t.) I just about managed to console myself with thoughts of a little designer present I’ve promised myself when I return to London.

My first sight of Porto Cervo

Harrods followed me to Italy. Just WAIT Harrods. I’ll buy the handbag when I get home!

Some sort of art installation. You can just see the yacht I was on in the background.

On Wednesday we passed another, even larger yacht, which incited great excitement on board. It turned out that the sixty metre-long monster, with five decks and a helicopter on top, used to belong to them. In fact, they’d built it. In the evening we watched The Great Gatsby in Russian, as the sun set and the yacht was driven back to port. Luckily I happened to have read the novel the day before I arrived in Tuscany, so could follow it (the only Russian I’ve learn is ‘porhah’ which means ‘bad’) but it was a little surreal. It seemed a lot more sinister in Russian! It was night when we returned to the port, and an incredibly firework display was exploding in the sky above us. It went on for about half an hour, at the end of which all the yachts let off an impromptu volley of horn blasts.

Impromptu fireworks

The yacht itself was stunning. The living areas were beautifully decorated in shades of grey, cream and tan, and the rest of the interior lined with mahogany. Cashmere blankets folded over the backs of chairs (1,300 euros each, the crew told me), and expensive cushions to sink into. Everything had a place, with no clutter or awkward corners, and the crew ensured that we always had everything we wanted – a steady supply of snacks and drinks were kept up between meals. There were also small fridges dotted around, discreetly hidden in cupboards, so we could help ourselves if we wanted to. My cabin was small but not cramped, and the bathroom… ah, the bathroom! The shower was lined in white marble (really, truly!) and it was crammed with Molton Brown toiletries.  Heaven. Though the motion of the boat did make it feel a little like showering in a lift.

The crew didn’t stop working for a second, constantly refolding towels, discreetly cleaning, and organising anything the family asked for. When we weren’t at sea, the family spent a lot of time on various beaches, or playing with their jet-ski and jet-surfer, to name but two of the million or so fancy water-toys on board. They were surprised that I didn’t want to join them, and I was frequently asked why I didn’t go to the beach at the villa, but I really wasn’t that bothered. I was perfectly happy reading by the pool, or on the yacht, and otherwise wanted only to get on with writing. Beaches to me are for holidays, so I’d prefer to save them for when I’m actually on holiday myself. What do you think – should I have just enjoyed myself?!

The children were reluctant to give up their holiday time for lessons, but I nevertheless heard very few complaints from them. (aside from eight year old Emily – I had a few sulks from her!) They would sometimes give me excuses for having lessons ‘later’, which I typically acceded to rather than make them miserable, but I was very impressed by how well-mannered and hard-working they were.

I wouldn’t do it again! But I’m glad I did it this once.

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Tom and I had a very special weekend. With my teaching in Tuscany and his managing the business single-handed in London, we’ve been away from the great British Countryside for far too long, so we thought we’d pay it a visit in style.

Have you heard of The Landmark Trust?

It was set up in 1965, as an alternative to the National Trust and The Ministry of Works (the name they came up with doesn’t sound terribly alternative, I know, but  stay with me). They aim to rescue smaller historic buildings that the other organisations are not interested in. You may think this a worthwhile but not particularly impressive or exciting a task as restoring a full-sized castle or manor house, but rather than letting you peer at them from behind ropes, The Landmark Task restores these miniature buildings so that the public can actually stay in them. You can live in a fantasy for a few days, at the top of a fairytale tower or surrounded by crenellated battlements, beautiful countryside stretching into the distance on every side. It really is the most wonderful experience.

They vary in price according to the time of year and how many people can be fitted in, but are generally very reasonable; off-season, two people can stay in a mini castle for about £60 per night. A few photos below of some of the incredible places you can stay:

Appleton Water Tower

Appleton Water Tower interior

Gothic Temple, Stowe

The Bath House interior

The Bath House interior

The Chateau, Lincolnshire

The Ruin, Hackfall

Last weekend, Tom and I stayed at Swarkestone Pavilion, near Ticknall, Derbyshire. As you can see from the map below, it’s pretty much bang in the middle of England. We had been intending to go to Paris for the weekend, but realised at the last minute that we were both desperately missing the countryside and having had The Landmark Trust bookmarked for ages, it felt like the perfect chance to try it out. The weather forecast had predicted the start of autumn, with rain most of the weekend and a chill in the air, but this suited us both perfectly.

I adore autumn. The landscape bursts into shades of copper, rust, and gold, and the sunsets seem to set the sky on fire. Dawn walks are accompanied by frost crunching underfoot and breathe misting into the air. You can snuggle up in a heavy woollen coat and pull on soft leather gloves, and wander through the fields and hedgerows foraging for nuts, berries and toadstools. It’s also the start of the cross country season, for any horse-riders out there, which means exhilarating gallops through fields and woodlands, charging over rustic and often terrifying jumps, and getting completely covered in mud. Bliss.

For a more relaxed, peaceful autumn weekend though, I cannot recommend The Landmark Trust highly enough! The property we chose is just outside Derby. We got a taxi from the station, stopping off at Tesco’s on the way for supplies, and eventually managed to locate it when Tom spotted it across the fields. Finding our way inside and exploring was incredible. It really did feel like we’d been given the keys to a private National Trust property, and just told to enjoy ourselves.

The front of the pavilion

Obviously we ran straight up to the roof, to ensure that the defences were suitably fortified.

Tom enjoying the battlements

One of two towers – the left contains a spiralling staircase, and the other a rooftop bathroom.

The first floor living area – complete with open fireplace and entrance to Narnia.

It didn’t have a working fire sadly, but many other Landmark properties do

The kitchen – stocked with every implement you could need. I was particularly impressed by the toast rack personally, but it also contains things like a soufflé dish and rolling pin, which says a lot about the wonderful people that usually stay in places like this (they bake. People who bake are full of goodness, in my opinion). I stocked it with wine, tea and plenty of treats as soon as we arrived, to help compound the impression that we actually lived there.

A manor house was built nearby in the 1560s by Sir Richard Harpur. When it passed to his great grandson in 1630, the young John Harpur was also knighted and married in the same year, which triptage of fortune coincided – probably not coincidentally – with the pavilion’s construction. It looks like a typical Tudor or early Jacobean manor, but reduced to miniature proportions. The tiny pavilion was a majestic grandstand for whatever occurred in the enclosure before it (possibly something romantic like jousting; possibly bowls). According to the website, “it may well have doubled as a banqueting house to which small groups could retire to enjoy the ‘banquet’ course of fine wines and sweetmeats, play cards, or just enjoy the view of their host’s estate”.

The Landmark Trust rescued it in 1985, by which point it was already in a state of dereliction. It had also featured on the cover of The Rolling Stones’ The Beggar’s Banquet though, so, you know, every cloud.

Swarkestone Pavilion in 1968.

The enclosure in front of the pavilion, being put to good use.

The Beggar’s Banquet.  This is NOT Swarkestone, because it had neither roof nor floor when they were filming there, but it’s too wonderful a photo not to include.

We arrived late on Friday afternoon, and managed to have a couple of glasses of wine on the roof before the promised rain arrived.

The next morning I had a luxurious bath on the roof, overflowing with bubbles, and looking out across hay bales and gorgeous countryside as I shampooed my hair into a lather. Tom prefers to shut all the blinds/ curtains to any bathroom that can be viewed from outside, but I’m a little more risqué; I like having a view when I wash my hair! I then made us a cooked breakfast, with Wild Boar pate and Woodland Strawberry jam from Fortnum and Mason. We were on holiday after all.

After breakfast we walked across fields full of golden stubble and scattered with left-over chaff, along a canal towpath, and down an abandoned railway line to the nearby village of Melbourne. We had a couple of drinks at the village pub, then picked up extra groceries and got a taxi back to the pavilion.

The Loggia, a gallery open to the elements on one side and supported by columns. Or “welcome to my hobbit house” as Tom cackled when taking this photo of me. Thanks darling. It’s the boots isn’t it; they make me look sturdy.

A family of swans we came across, making their way along the canal. The parents hissed, but their cygnets were clearly used to getting bread from walkers and made a beeline for us.

Cygnet rivalry. A little further on we spotted a moorhen wandering along the far bank, followed by several black fluff-balls which we presumed were moorhen chicks.

On Sunday Tom went on an expedition to purchase the weekend newspapers, but otherwise we holed ourselves away with lots of cups of tea and plenty of buttery crumpets. It’s a lot easier to write in an environment like this. Buildings seem to settle with time; it’s as if the older they are the happier they are to simply watch you rather than to intrude upon your thoughts. So many hands have smoothed away the sharp edges across the centuries, so many voices laughed and chattered between the walls, that the building is half-asleep; it trusts you to know what you’re doing and to get on with it.

I can’t remember when I last enjoyed a holiday this much. Everything was so easy, and peaceful… the perfect escape.

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Despite the chill in the air, the autumn foraging harvest isn’t quite ready. But I was never very good at taking no for an answer.

Visiting my parents’ house in East Sussex last weekend, I pulled on my gumboots and went for a walk. I kept my eyes peeled for berries, nuts and toadstools, as the landscape is incredibly varied and you can find pretty much anything you want if you time your search correctly, but I did have a particular quarry in mind. Rosehips. Remarkably, not everyone actually knows what these are, even when staring straight at them. They’re the seeds (and fruit, most importantly) of the rose, and are small red berries. Not to be confused with all the other small red berries you will find, most of which are poisonous. A guide on this here.

Rosehips – distinctively shaped, and easily identified once you’ve encountered them once. They’re also to be found growing on rose bushes, as opposed to any other type of tree or bush, which is a useful clue.

Hawthorn berries, are distinguished from the rosehip by being smaller, rounder, and tightly clustered together. These are actually edible, technically, but I wouldn’t go there personally.

I walked about six miles searching for rosehips, but most of those I found were still orange, or had not ripened in sufficient quantities to merit harvesting. Grazing sheep and horses watched me traipse across their fields in bemusement, and I met several lovely dogs and their owners enjoying the public footpaths and Woodland Trust land. The latter provides a fantastic harvest of sweet chestnuts every year, the ground carpeted with their prickly green cases and gleaming mahogany buttons, so I’ll be back in a month or so to make the most of it.

Wild poppies growing amongst a field of corn, through which the footpath winds.

Ripening corn. This does not count as food for foraging, unfortunately, as that would be cheating (and stealing, of course)

I also discovered a number of puffballs, and these beefsteak mushrooms. They actually taste like beef, as well as looking remarkably similar – they’re pink and marbled inside, and even bleed a reddish juice if cut when young.

You can forage for toadstools any time, though autumn is best as the conditions are perfect for them to flourish. I left these where I found them, however, and doggedly continued my search. I nibbled on blackberries as I hunted along the hedgerows and a few ripe damsons that I had to climb to reach. Finally, FINALLY, as I was reaching home on the meandering, circuitous route I had chosen, I found a large bush absolutely covered in ripe rosehips (I may have done a little dance. The sheep were not impressed). I gathered a small bagful, leaving most of them for the birds, and trotted home to brew up a lovely little potion I’d been planning.

I wanted to follow Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s recipe for rosehip syrup, for some cocktails I have planned later in the week. The syrup is delicious, and can also be diluted and used as a cordial, or drizzled over ice-cream, pancakes etc.

Chopping rosehips by hand – if I’d had more of them I would have used a blender, but I prefer chopping by hand as quality control is more effective; you’re more likely to spot mould and bugs.

Leave the seeds in and chop roughly, as you’re only going to be extracting the liquid.

After covering the pulp with boiling water, and leaving it to stew (off the heat) for half an hour, I then lined a sieve with two layers of muslin and strained the liquid through it in batches. I returned the pulp to the pan and repeated the process, then combined the two batches of liquid and simmered until it reduced by half.

I know that must look like a lot of sugar to add to 250g of rosehips, but it’s normal for preserves I promise! Once the liquid has reduced, remove it from the heat and stir in castor sugar. Once that has dissolved return and “boil hard” (Hugh’s words!) then pour into sterilised bottles or jars. If you want it thicker boil for longer, but I wanted mine for drinks so left it fairly runny.

The finished result. Hugh FW in the background there for moral support.

Is anyone else planning on harvesting the hedgerows this autumn?

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I love cocktails. The name of my blog may give this away… so I thought I’d show you a few recipes that I invented recently.

I love the different combinations of ingredients requisite to a good cocktail, and how they create a unique flavour that your palette puzzles over, until it is able to discern the individual components. A perfume designed for consumption. The different textures, additions of  fruit, spices or herbs, different levels of flavour depending on whether you sip from the rim or mine the depths with a straw – a cocktail is an experience unlike most other alcoholic drinks. The glamour, excitement and elegance they have retained from the age of Prohibition, when their popularity boomed in the 1920s and 30s and they came to represent an era (as sweet ingredients masked the poor-quality spirits available), has also never been lost. ‘Going out for cocktails’ feels a lot more special than simply meeting someone for ‘a drink’.

Traditional or vintage cocktail recipes can transport your imagination back in time to the hotel bar that invented them, or the circle of writers and artists that drank them. Just as much fun, however, is inventing your own! My father has always made his own drinks, and is keen on experimenting himself. Is this an Australian thing, or just a dad thing? I grew up tiptoeing around vats of beer, ale, cider, mead, alcoholic ginger beer, and elderflower wine, to name the more successful projects. I remember once Dad made me show him my favourite climbing tree, a huge, twisted lime tree in the jungle near our house on Nauru. I was about six, and we spent hours collecting buckets of limes to turn into homemade limeade. It tasted wonderful. He managed to bottle the experience of scrabbling up into the tree’s canopy, then stretching out along branches that swayed gently in the breeze, surrounded by small, dark leaves and bright green baubles.

The scent of fresh lime still transports me back to that tree. My experiments are less ambitious than my father’s, mixology being my focus rather than alchemy (out of laziness and impatience), but I’ve still inherited his interest in creating something you can actually consume and enjoy. I also share my parents’ penchant for flavours and ingredients you could find in a hedgerow, or walking through the countryside; particularly the more unusual. I invited a few of my best guinea pigs friends round to test them out. Four of the best below:

1) The Lovejoy

• Homemade Cider
• Lovage
• Blackberries

You want to know what Lovage is don’t you (I’m glad you asked). Lovage is an alcoholic cordial, made primarily from the eponymous herb (which looks like a massive weed, but apparently is good for you). It’s distilled in Devon from local herbs and spices, and is traditionally drunk with brandy, but I thought I’d try something different with it. It does smell a bit unusual, but it tastes like sugary fennel – simultaneously sweet and herby. It works well with very dry cider as otherwise the flavour is hidden (we tried it with ginger ale and couldn’t taste the Lovage at all) so I purloined a couple of bottles of Dad’s super-dry home-made cider. The blackberries enhance this cocktail’s autumnal feel, and of course taste delicious.

Lovage

Lovejoy ingredients (mint masquerading as lovage, but you get the idea)

2) Midsummer Night’s Dram

• Champagne
• Quince liqueur
• Fresh fig
• Fresh mint leaves
• Ice

To be honest the champagne and quince liqueur work perfectly in combination, without needing further additions, but the mint and fig make it a bit more exciting! Quince – just in case you haven’t encountered them before – are a bit like bright gold, hard, squat, lumpy pears (and, er, more appealing than they sound). Their cultivation also preceded that of the apple, so old references to apples may actually be inciting the humble quince. They’re usually roasted, baked or stewed, or turned into jams and jellies, but they also work perfectly as a liqueur. I muddled it with torn mint leaves, mixed both with ice in a cocktail shaker, then poured into glass flutes and topped them up with champagne. A quarter of a fig secured to the rim was the finishing touch.

Quince

Midsummer Night’s Dram ingredients

Katya, Katy and I drinking Midsummer Night’s Drams

3) Cider With Rosie

• Wild rosehip syrup
• Hot cider
• Cinnamon
• Cloves

I used Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s recipe for the rosehip syrup, found here. Rosehips always remind me of foraging in the countryside when I was growing up. They glow like rubies above prickly hedges, and picking them always felt like gathering treasure. I’d gather bucketfuls, dry them out in my parents’ airing cupboard, and Katy and I would feed them to my pony throughout the winter. They’re packed with vitamins and health, particularly vitamin C, and taste like a cross between plums, tart apples and rose petals. I made the syrup at my parents’ house last weekend (and also picked up a couple of bottles of Dad’s home-made cider). I heated the latter gently in a saucepan with cinnamon sticks and cloves. This cocktail was certainly the most fun to drink -the perfect thing to drink around an autumn bonfire!

Rosehips

Cider With Rosie ingredients

4) Damson’s Creek

• Damson Gin
• Sloe Gin
• Elderflower Cordial
• Juice from a fresh lime
• Ice

I was able to use a cocktail shaker filled with ice to mix all the ingredients together in this one, as it didn’t include anything that needed to retain fizz, and it really made a difference. Sweet, sharp, floral and chilled, and very strong! Damsons are slightly larger, egg-shaped, sweet sloes (the latter of which will make your mouth shrivel up if tasted in their natural form), though are otherwise identical to their sloe-gin-cousins. Of all the cocktails, this one had an edge in terms of flavour, and tasted the most like something you’d actually buy in a bar. It didn’t quite beat the Cider With Rosie though, which was a clear favourite.

Damsons

Damson’s Creek ingredients

Katya and I drinking Damson’s Creeks

Let me know if you try any of the recipes, and if you have a favourite!

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My Theatre Club had an outing recently. Minus one of our members… because she was on the stage!

I met my lovely friend Katia at university, when we were both studying at Queen Mary’s College, University of London. I was reading English Literature and Language, and she was reading Law. One of the first things I learnt about her was that she was a model, which seemed impossibly exciting and glamorous, but she was always so thoughtful, modest and down to earth that half the time I’d forget about her other life outside of university (until I spotted her in Vogue, or modelling for Toni & Guy on huge billboards all across the city).  We’ve remained friends ever since, and try to meet every week to catch up on each-other’s gossip; though hers is a lot more exciting than mine!

She mentioned being interested in acting a while ago, but had been told that her Russian accent would be too great an obstacle and she should give up on the idea. I remember disagreeing, but she’d been put off and, typically pragmatic, seemed to put it to the back of her mind. Then, of course, she was offered a part in a play. Called Sunstroke, it was inspired by two short stories by Anton Chekhov & Ivan Bunin. Wonderfully, they needed a beautiful young woman who was also very Russian; and Katia fitted the bill perfectly.

Belka Productions aim to bring undiscovered Russian literary and theatrical gems to the London stage; an admirable vocation given how little we really know about Russian society and culture in the UK (apparently wild mushroom collecting is a national pastime, and they have a thing about watermelon. Interesting details, but not enough to really understand Russia, I’d have thought). Last year Belka produced the critically acclaimed Warsaw Melody at the Arcola (sorry, I know ‘critically acclaimed’ is code for ‘other people said it was good but I didn’t see it’, but it’s the best I can do), and next April they are bringing us A Dashing Fellow. Having experienced Sunstroke, I’ll definitely be queuing up for tickets.

Actress Rosy Benjamin

Sunstroke wove together two similar plots, both exploring the passions and torments of love outside marriage. Chekhov’s The Lady with the Dog was juxtaposed with Bunin’s Sunstroke, both tales taking place during a particularly hot Russian summer, and exploiting the febrile effect this has. I found it interesting that the initially blasé predation of the men was subsequently thwarted, when their supposed detachment turned to obsession, and it was their female counterparts who walk away from them in the second half. Perhaps there’s a feminist in me after all. We had wondered where either story would be going after the interval, as they seemed to have been concluded both logically and emotionally. This only reinforced the typically-Russian, saturnine conclusion, however, where the protagonists’ lives were tarnished by their inability to relinquish what they could not have.

Actors Oliver King and Stephen Pucci – Photos © Nick Rutter

The acting was powerful and full of energy, even in moments of stillness. The only aspect lost in translation was the ages of the characters, as they all appeared young and attractive to us rather than this potential distance between them being evident. The set was fairly simple, taking the form of two raised platforms at either end of a traverse stage, and an awful lot of sand. It was also a small, intimate venue, which made being in the audience feel voyeuristic; an impression that worked well with Sunstroke  given the content. The characters’ emotions were additionally conveyed by the presence of the dancer Masumi Saito, whose fluid contortions around the stage simultaneously evoked the stylised precision of Japanese traditions, and the licentious passions of the couples. Multiple layers of symbolism were woven around the fairly simple plot, to be either puzzled over or subliminally absorbed. Found in playing cards scattered across the sand like discarded morals, and the sand itself poured over a splayed kimono as if burying inhibitions.

Masumi Saito

A couple of photos I took after the performance

Taken moments before the sand was swept away by the cast and crew

Fellow theatre clubbers, Charles and Steve, towering over me despite my four inch heels.

It was a stunning and thought-provoking production. I was delighted to see Katia’s stage debut, and hope to see her acting more in the future. It was also interesting to catch a glimpse of Russian culture that I suspect the new TV series on FOX, Meet The Russians, will not be focusing on. Despite the fact that Katia will also be featuring in this as well!

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I seem to have had an unusually glamorous couple of weeks in London, what with cocktails, outings to the theatre and being filmed with Katya for Russian TV. I was starting to feel a bit too citified, so thought it high time I got covered in mud.

Tom, Dave and I spent the last weekend climbing mountains.

We’ve been visiting the Lake District in Cumbria since I first met Tom, and he and Dave were living in a grotty ground-floor flat in Muswell Hill together (grotty is a polite understatement). The first time was over New Years, and the hills were covered in snow. It was magical. For about a mile outside of the small town we were staying in the ground was solid, compacted ice, hundreds of walkers having trampled it into a slippery sheet. Off-putting for most walkers, who were understandably wary of breaking replacement hips or of needing them, once we’d managed to traverse it we were practically alone in a snowy wonderland. We sheltered in a pine forest at one point when a snowstorm turned the air white, but otherwise the weather was perfect. Freezing, but perfect! Subsequent visits, however, have been disastrous in terms of the weather – constant driving rain – and illness suddenly striking.

New Year’s Day

A farm dog we met taking the day off. He trotted over to keep us company when we stopped for lunch.

This was taken four years ago… and I’m still wearing the same coat.

You can imagine our delight then, when we checked the forecast and discovered that blazing sunshine was predicted the whole weekend! Tom had seduced me with tales of glorious weather and sublime countryside (to go on holiday to the Lakes, that is; it wasn’t how he got me to go out with him), as he used to regularly go walking with his brothers. They’d easily cover twenty miles each day, sometimes thirty, and often camp on the hills at night. Our plans were less ambitious this weekend, as although Tom and Dave are both very fit I most definitely am not!

We stayed at a B&B in Keswick for convenience’s sake, though there was much talk of renting a holiday cottage next spring. Getting people to agree to a trip and actually go is a bit like herding cats though, so we’ll just have to see. We (Tom) planned a fairly relaxed walk on our first day, covering about twelve miles and ascending to 362 metres (1,207 ft) at most. We wound our way to the top of Latrigg, Then headed down its other side and meandered through farmland until we reached the stone circle at Castlerigg.

Dave and I ascending Latrigg

I’m not quite sure what this lot are up to…

Castlerigg stone circle

It’s an incredible location, ringed with towering peaks that appear to be staring down at the small plateau. The circle averages 100 ft in diameter, there are about forty stones, the heaviest of which is estimated to weigh 16 tonnes, and there is a roughly rectangular setting of a further ten stones within the circle. It has been speculated that the smaller, internal structure was a later addition, intended to demarcate it as a site of feasting or perhaps discussion. Having read a fair bit of modern archaeological theory, I wonder if its purpose was to differentiate between two belief systems, or even political factions, overlaying the old with the new in order to utilise the powerful associations and draw of the old whilst simultaneously disrupting and thus dominating them.

Tom posing leaning against the tallest stone

lunch time

We’d bought a fresh loaf from the farmer’s market in Keswick, and a few wax-coated cheeses, so settled down to a picnic just inside the stones. The view was slightly marred by the American tourists standing on-top of the stones to pose for photos. Their voices somehow managed to carry further than anyone else’s, and their enthusiastic need to clamber all over the stones was viewed with bemusement by the Brits and Germans who were choosing instead to sit quietly and contemplate the landscape. The best time of day to visit the stone circle would certainly be dawn, though there is unfortunately a quiet road nearby and space for parking, so it may be full of people even then.

The light began to change as we headed back towards Keswick, the glare of the midday sun being replaced by a golden glow that flooded the landscape, turning it a tawny colour and somehow bringing it more into focus. We came across a small tarn, its surface so still that the hills behind it were perfectly reflected. The peace and quiet and fresh air are of course a welcome relief after the bustle of London, but the landscape itself feels like it is quietly standing sentinel; watching over us as we traipse across it.

A small tarn we came across

The same tarn, camouflaged when the sky is no longer reflected in its surface

Once we’d all had chance to shower and examine various blisters, we headed to the Square Orange. We shared huge plates of tapas, and delicious thin-crust pizzas. There’s a common perception that food outside of London is poorer fair, but places like this prove that prejudice to be unfounded. Walking up and down hills all day also makes you feel like you really deserve a meal; something we certainly took advantage of!

The next day we had a more adventurous route planned. We’d decided to climb Skiddaw. Rising to 931 metres (3,054 ft) it’s one of highest mountains in England, and it certainly felt like it. The highest in England is Skiddaw’s neighbour Scafell Pike (978 m or 3,209 ft), and the highest in the British Isles is Ben Nevis in Scotland (1,344 m or 4,409 ft). Although the sunshine hadn’t disappeared the warmth of the previous day had, and a sharp wind had forced us into jumpers and coats. There was a steady stream of walkers making their way to the top, from children running up and down as they waiting for their parents to catch up,  to octogenarians clutching hands as they trudged slowly forwards.

The nice, gentle slope (ha) before reaching the base of Skiddaw

The mountaineers

I can’t remember the last time I did any real exercise (I know, I know shame on me) and there were a number of moments when my body told me to stop being so bloody mad and get off the damned mountain; but I managed it. Just about (though Tom did ask me several times if I was going to be alright as I looked on the verge of collapse, apparently.)

Just taking a little break. Tom… may have had to drag me to my feet again. And push me ahead of him to get me to move again. That heather was really comfortable.

Walking back down was remarkably almost as difficult as walking up, as a different set of muscles were suddenly required and the pressure shifted from well-plastered heels to toes. We did descend in half the time though, and were relieved to escape the wind.  We spotted a path leading off the main track and into a pine forest, and ducked through the gate to search for a picnic spot. A small grassy clearing basked in sunshine seemed perfect, so we settled down to tuck into the packed-lunches made for us by the guest-house owners. I don’t think walkers usually do this, divert from the prescribed route, so we were able to eat our lunch in complete solitude, with only a couple of spiders for company.

The perfect spot for a woodland picnic

Dave found a stick

This is the face of exhaustion

Dave had to return to London when we reached Keswick, but Tom and I were able to stay an extra night, so we got a taxi (my feet were refusing to do any more walking than was necessary by this point) over to the Lodore Falls hotel. It’s a nice little hotel with a well-stocked bar, and fantastic views across the lake. We sat in the lounge sipping Dalwhinnie, and watching the light fade from the hills surrounding Derwentwater.

Lodore Falls Hotel

My legs still ache, and the blisters still make me wince, but just two days of walking in the Lake District felt like sustenance for the soul. Has anyone else been walking in the Lakes? I’d love to hear your stories.

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SO. I bought a Mulberry handbag.

I know, I know. Before you say it, or even think it, I can hear a horrified wave of tutting and gasps building in the distance, like a tsunami of disapproval. I’ve been (half) jokingly lusting after one for years, and Tom finally turned round and said that volunteering to teach all summer instead of going on holiday was the cherry on top of the working-70-to-100hr-weeks-for-the-last-four-years cake, and I deserved a reward. I thought about just posting a few photos and weathering the storm (“Mulberry handbag? Where? Gosh, how did that get there?!”) but decided, actually, to use this opportunity to write about the importance of paying good money for the things you believe in.

Don’t worry, I’ll post photos as well.

When I was growing up, designer clothes only existed in Vogue. People at my state comprehensive certainly didn’t wear them! If you wanted to dress in something that wasn’t from Topshop you rummaged through the charity shops, which resulted in wonderfully cheap and eccentric outfits. I was perfectly happy with this at the time, but I did know that there was something else, something better, out there. I found it in London.

I still shopped in Oxfam, vintage stores and Topshop (have you SEEN the flagship store at Oxford Circus?! It’s amazing!) but I began to develop an eye for other, better quality British brands. I noticed the difference in quality, both in design and materials. Fabric that regained its intended shape even after numerous washes, that didn’t wear through with holes or split at the seams, and that didn’t fade at the first threat of water or in bright sunlight. Real leather that was supple and weathered with age, rather than plastic that didn’t. Shoes that didn’t cripple me.

I did my research as well. I read about horrendous working conditions in sweatshops producing cheap clothes. When 1,129 people died in the Primark-supplying Rana Plaza factory in April 2013, it reminded me that paying more for clothes is not simply vanity; it helps prevent tragedies like this. The damage done to the environment by industrial levels of pesticide and bleach (poisoning local water supplies and wildlife) in the mass-production of cotton, is another example of destruction resulting from greedy consumers demanding cheap clothing. I’ve always tried to buy organic food as  I don’t particularly want to ingest toxins if I don’t need to, but also because it sends a message to the supermarkets. They control farming these days, and if the consumer says they want to pay a tiny bit more for organic food then the supermarkets will themselves encourage this. Buying clothing produced sustainably and fairly is an extension of this.

Also, although I love clothes and shopping, I dislike mass-consumerism. I don’t need a wardrobe bursting at the seams, and I find the modern flippancy towards clothes, happily throwing away last year’s fashions to make room for this year’s, distasteful. I spend a lot on my clothes, but I probably only buy one item each month, if that. Why would I need any more? My clothes last! If I do manage to damage them, I repair them. I think carefully about every pair of shoes or garment that I buy, and I value them as a result; I take pride in their ownership. A value that our consumerist society has, paradoxically, lost.

Finally, I also like supporting British brands. Hobbs, Barbour and Really Wild; Karen Millen, Reiss and Ted Baker; Turnbull and Asser, Aquascutum and Mulberry. I’m not saying they need my money, but I feel proud to wear British fashion. I know with Mulberry in particular I’m paying a lot for the label, but as someone who has built a brand based on quality myself, I respect that. They’ve earned it. I’m also contributing to our economy positively, helping to provide desperately needed employment and maintain high standards; our laws on production, wages and working conditions are a lot stricter than in developing countries. We should pride ourselves on this.

I’ve worked hard as long as I can remember to be able to live a lifestyle I enjoy, but being able to make moral choices is a major factor in this. Most people don’t even notice my Mulberry handbag, as it’s not exactly ostentatious, but that’s not why I bought it. Apart from all the other arguments I’ve offered you I’ll probably use it for the next thirty years, which works out at £50 per year, and it’s not just a part of my wardrobe now: it’s a part of me.

Plus these choirs of angels start singing whenever I look at it. Funny, Mulberry didn’t mention that that would happen!

Coat Karen Millen, shoes Hobbs.

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Another blog I follow is throwing a party, and everyone is invited. She’ll give you a warm welcome over at Maison Bentley Style where you can also meet the other blogging guests, see what they’re wearing, and how they’re partying on their own blogs.

I’ve mixed up some of my hedgerow cocktails for you, so enjoy, and let me know which is your favourite!

I’m wearing a 1920s cocktail dress with gumboots, because it’s going to get muddy… I’ve cleared a dance-floor in the middle of a forest, and a jazz band are tuning their instruments as you read this. Fairy-lights and lanterns are glowing all around us, but if that storm hits we’ve been promised then we’ll retire to my seventeenth century pavilion, and continue the party from there. The Rolling Stones have already started on the banquet, but there’s  plenty for everyone!

What’s everyone else wearing, and who have you brought along as your plus-ones?

One of my favourite pubs in London is The Holly Bush, in Hampstead, so I thought I’d introduce you.

I’m often to be found in here, deep in conversation by the open fire, or staring fondly into the depths of a glass of cider in one of the wood-panelled booths. There are nooks and corners for hiding away in, and larger tables in the back room if you’re bringing a party. It has a lovely, relaxed atmosphere, and is wonderfully free of the bellowing city boys central London establishments are plagued by. It’s usually busy as it’s not the best kept secret, but I always phone up and reserve a table, which strategy has never failed, even late on a Friday afternoon.

There are plenty of ales on tap, as well as Aspalls cider; a godsend if you’re pretending to be ladylike and prefer sipping halves. They also have a good selection of scotch, and the staff are friendly and helpful… and often delightfully eccentric! In addition to the beautiful surroundings, the interesting staff and the excellent range of alcohol, the food is also incredible. Not your usual pub fare at all, though their Sunday roasts are highly renowned. The last time I met my friend Hannah there for a drink, I had the smoked duck egg. As a main course it doesn’t sound the best, does it, but out of curiosity and faith I put my trust in them, and the Holly Bush certainly didn’t let me down.

My meal arrived on a large piece of slate, with a curious white dome in the centre of it. The glass dome was lifted off with a flourish, and a cloud of smoke swirled out before disappearing into the shadows. After this piece of theatre I was left with two large fried duck-eggs, placed on top of creamy mashed potato, itself piled on top of a bed of thinly sliced greens – possibly celeriac, with its subtly nutty, celery-like flavour. Surrounding this was a selection of wild mushrooms Hugh FW would have been impressed by, including winter chanterelles and a huge cep. Everything was infused with a subtle smokiness, and the whole dish was both exciting and delicious. I can’t remember what Hannah had I’m afraid, as my attention was completely focussed on my own meal (I actually stopped talking for a good ten minutes, which rare occurrence she was particularly impressed by) but I’m told it was also excellent. Tom always orders one of their gourmet scotch eggs as a starter, or even if we just pop in for a drink, as he claims they make the best he’s ever had (and he’s from the North, which makes him an expert).  The menu is regularly updated, the food is consistently excellent, and they always have an interesting vegetarian option.

Isn’t that just the most exciting way to present a meal?

Tottering home through the cobbled streets of Hampstead also feels like stepping back in time, and is a far more pleasant end to the evening than walking past vomiting clubbers closer to the centre of London. Let me know if you pop in for a drink, or if you have any other recommendations for similar watering-holes in the UK (anywhere at all, I will travel!)

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As it happens, I know a lot of Russians, but I also know one in particular.

I met my friend Katia for coffee a few months ago, when she first mentioned that she was being filmed for a TV documentary. She laughed as my eyes widened and I started looking around for a hidden camera crew. As usual she played it down, presenting her role as an adjunct to the real stars, and we left it at that. A couple of weeks later, however, she asked if I’d mind terribly being filmed having tea with her in her flat. I thought about it long and hard (for a good two minutes), before deciding that I should manage not to make a fool out of myself on international TV if I just had to sit still and drink tea, and agreed. A week later, having broken me in gently, she invited Tom and I to a small cocktail party hosted by a friend of hers, also to be filmed for the series. I did have to bribe, cajole and beg Tom to accompany me, but agree he eventually did.

I don’t usually watch reality TV shows, but then I’ve never known anyone starring in one before so an exception definitely has to be made. Friends and family who have watched Meet the Russians have reacted… extremely, shall we say! My mum’s response was probably the best (she’s well clever, my mum), as she was actually quite intrigued by the the innocence of most of the Russians featured; their naivety and lack of self-awareness, so different to the British culture they have settled in which judges others so harshly.

The below table I found online illustrates this quite well, though I’m sure we could add to it! Any ideas welcome.

Tom and I were apparently (room meat) on last night’s episode of Meet the Russians on FOX (Sky only I’m afraid, but that does mean it’ll be repeated  a lot if you missed it). We don’t have Sky ourselves though, so haven’t seen it!  I’m going to take a deep breath, prepare for an onslaught, and ask what you thought. Honesty, good British-style honesty (see above table), appreciated!

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Just a quick post today, but I had to show you what I found.

I was pootling along in Waitrose yesterday, when my eye was drawn to the ‘crackers and savoury snacks aisle’. This is a favoured location for me to while away the hours. I work my way through a lot of cheese each week, and will happily nibble on snacks all day long, so can profess to be a bit of an expert. Amidst the usual delights, a whole shelf had been given over a new range I hadn’t seen before, by Thomas J. Fudge’s Remarkable Bakery (they had me on the name, to be honest).

My eyes widened, as I contemplated the practicality of buying one of everything (there were about twelve different varieties of shards, flats, melts and pufferies), but I reluctantly settled just on the following three.

I love the packaging, as the designs are both pretty and silly; the perfect thing for having friends over. Reminiscent of nineteenth century botany and ornithology drawings, but with a modern pop of colour, an artistic representation of the ingredients used is balanced on the top-hatted heads of dapper gents on the front of each. Attention to detail is also impressive. A clear panel on the side of each box allows you to peek in at what you’re soon to be snaffling, and there are little notes printed inside the lid and along the decorated serving tray they come in. Oh, and they’re also utterly and completely delicious!

There’s a competition running currently on their website, to win a hatbox full of the new range of edible delights. Apparently there will be 22 weekly draws between 3rd August 2013 and 3rd January 2014, so plenty of chances to win! You can enter it here.

Let me know if you give them a go, or if you happen to win a hatbox full (I will be mad with jealousy, but adopt you as a good-luck charm).

Although Tom and I usually prefer staying in self-catered accommodation when we travel (no getting up at the crack of dawn for breakfast, or being interrupted at any moment by unexpected knocks on the door) there’s only one place we stay when we visit York. Marmadukes Hotel.

The decor has a slightly Old World, colonial feel, with plenty of dark wooden tables, leather sofas, wicker chairs and botanical prints. Apparently it was once the home of a Victorian gentleman, and you do get a sense of this. It’s spacious and light, however, and the cabinets of desiccated plant samples and taxidermied animals favoured by the nineteenth century house are absent. I love this place. It always feels like staying in a home rather than a hotel.

Posing? ME?! Nooo.

Lounging around in our lovely room. It’s actually not quite as pretty as the last room we were allocated, but it still has a wonderfully relaxed atmosphere.

The main drawing room. The staff are happy to serve drinks in here whenever you ask, and there’s a second room next door with leather sofas, a chess set and other board games in case you get bored.

If it is taxidermy you’re after, however, head to The House of Trembling Madness (Delirium Tremens, or DT’s to the locals). The shop downstairs sells an incredible range of alcoholic delights, but make your way through this and up the stairs for the real treat. Crooked wooden beams, benches with sheepskins and fur pelts thrown over them, and a whole wall of mounted heads lend this pub a strangely homely and welcoming feel. Like a Viking boozer. We were sat beneath a huge boar’s head, and above the bar an antique Victorian lion snarls down at punters. Miraculously they actually have wifi here, making it a great place to curl up and write.

A moment of calm, before the place filled up completely as people finished work

A whole wall of taxidermy

We had a few drinks here, before meeting Tom’s brother Luke at the Evil Eye Lounge (every drinking establishment in York seems to be competing to have the most ridiculous name. Excellent reason to test them all, I’d have thought.) In theory this is a student bar, but don’t let that put you off as it’s a relaxed and eclectic crowd. Great cocktails, quirky décor, and a menu of dishes brought back by wide-eyes travellers. Carved four poster beds have been incorporated amongst the usual benches and tables, which you should definitely occupy if you get the chance. I completely forgot to take any photos, sorry, but that is testament to the venue and company!

The next day, determined to get some writing done, we wandered around York looking for somewhere suitable. I vastly prefer writing in cafes and bars, as inspiration is all around you. It also feels more purposeful than sitting on the sofa at home, where there are so many other distractions.

Tom, looking more like the Bernard Black of the North

York is a beautiful town, full of Medieval buildings and cobbled streets, but it is also full of tearooms. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of afternoon tea, and Betty’s Tearooms do an excellent one… but they just don’t work as a writing environment. There’s too much light, for one thing. I don’t know about you, but I much prefer hiding myself away in the shadows so I can type and think in peace. There are also far too many people, often sitting at tables crowded closely together, peering curiously at everything and everyone around them. There are plenty of excellent pubs and restaurants in York, but the sort of cafes you get in London and Paris don’t seem to have arrived yet.

After a good half an hour of peering doubtfully through tearoom windows, we were advised to try Grays Court. Not even the locals seem to know about this place, but it was exactly what we wanted. For anyone who does know York, you need to circle anticlockwise around the back of the Minster, then it’s just past the Treasurer’s House. These were the directions we were given anyway! For everyone else there’s google maps.

We wandered beneath a stone archway, and found ourselves in a stunning courtyard. The trees were hung with lanterns, and only just starting to spill golden leaves onto the cobbles beneath. We picked out a heavy oak door as being the most likely entrance, and made our way up the hulking wooden staircase on the other side. As promised, the place was half empty, and we were invited to wander around and find a room we wanted to sit in. We chose the Library (obviously!) but even the main, wood-panelled lobby has been cleverly split into separate areas so you are able to feel more secluded if you want to.

The Library

The Jacobean oak-panelled Long Gallery

Apparently the manor house was once owned by the Duke of Somerset, Jane Seymour’s brother, and visited by both James I and James II. It hasn’t been open as a hotel for long, and they still seem to be putting in the finishing touches (a few shelves in the Library hadn’t yet been filled, and a wall of gilt-framed black and white photos in the dining room was only half completed). It’s a lovely, peaceful environment though, and we stayed there most of the day.

We only had two days in York, but we found some lovely places. I’ll save the excellent shopping for another time!

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